Lean In
by moonlighten
Summary: March, 2010: Northern Ireland begins to regret accepting Scotland's invitation to spend a week in his and France's company. (Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part 50 of the Feel the Fear series.


**March, 2010; Edinburgh, Scotland**

-  
Following the embarrassingly sincere conversation about his newly invigorated romantic life Scotland had made him sit through back in December, Northern Ireland had steeled himself to expect an outpouring of cloying soppiness – the like of which he'd previously only had to tolerate from Wales – when France subsequently joined their family Boxing Day and Hogmanay celebrations.

The only difference he'd been able to discern in his brother's behaviour towards France then, however, was that he smiled a lot more often than he usually did, actually met France's eyes when he talked to him instead of staring fixedly at his right ear, and occasionally gave him a hug, and, even then, they were the blokey, matey sort of hugs replete with back-slapping that Scotland gives out to his human friends, and, when he's drunk, any of his relations within grabbing distance.

They kissed just once, at the stroke of midnight on the 31st when such things were practically mandated by law. A quick, close-mouthed press of lips chaste enough that England didn't even have chance to finish working up a proper head of steam over being made to observe it before it was over. Scotland had slobbered more enthusiastically over Wales cheek several hours and a bottle of whisky later.

Northern Ireland had begun to relax afterwards, thinking that this new status quo wouldn't actually be as arduous as he'd feared it might be.

He'd been wrong. Appallingly, stupidly wrong.

He doesn't know what had changed between then and now, and probably doesn't want to, but he sure as hell would have refused Scotland's invitation to spend an _entire week_ in his and France's company if anyone had bothered to give him so much as a hint how much things had devolved in the interim.

It isn't too bad during the day; just a non-stop cavalcade of lingering looks and distinctly _unchaste_ kisses which are all slightly nauseating, but ultimately endurable.

At night, though, it all takes a bloodcurdling turn.

The walls in Scotland's house are paper thin, and even with a pillow held over his head, headphones on, and music turned up as high as it will go, Northern Ireland has still heard dreadful things that are bound to haunt his nightmares for years to come.

After the second night thus disturbed, he rings Wales, hoping for some sympathy and understanding, but his brother obstinately refuses to give him either.

"They're just in the honeymoon phase still," Wales says, in a soft, dreamy tone that suggests he considers this state of affairs rather sweet despite the anguished terms in which Northern Ireland had described his horror. "It'll pass soon enough."

Northern Ireland remains unconvinced. "They've been at it for centuries, haven't they?" he says. "Surely they should have got all of that out of their system by now?"

"Second honeymoon, then," Wales continues blithely. "Look, if you're that bothered by it, you could always move downstairs and sleep in the living room."

In addition to its penny-pinching lack of heating, Scotland's living room is in possession of a rattly window that's about as effective at keeping out the wind as an open door. It's usually colder in there than it is outside, and Northern Ireland would probably be in real and present danger of literally freezing his bollocks off if he overnighted in it.

He chances the spare room yet again, so the morning of the third day of his visit finds him groggy, lethargic, and so bereft of appetite that he can't even manage to force down the last of the batch of six croissants France had made for his breakfast.

He gets no sympathy when he calls England, either.

"I did warn you, didn't I?" his brother says when he complains, sounding revoltingly smug. "But would you listen? The frog is nothing but a crass exhibitionist, and Scotland's always been too easily led by him. No sense of propriety, either of them.

"You've learnt your lesson now, I shouldn't wonder. If you like, you can come down to mine and spend the rest of your holiday here."

"Hmm," Northern Ireland says noncommittally.

Whilst his nights may be nigh on unbearable, he's been rather enjoying his days. Scotland is in a better mood than Northern Ireland has ever experienced before, and France keeps stuffing him full of delicious food every time he sits still for long enough to eat, and showering him with expensive gifts at all points in between. He's not sure that he's ready to give that up quite yet.

"I was planning on sorting through my photographs," England says. "I could use a helping hand."

Especially not for _that_. England seems to have forgotten that he often used to set Northern Ireland the task of cataloguing his collection of photographs – which fills a good quarter of his loft, and includes an entire box devoted to his study of the art of dry stone walling – as a _punishment_ when he was younger.

"Thanks for the offer, England," Northern Ireland says, "but I think I'm going to stick it out here."

Alcohol will help with that, he's certain, and thus when Scotland drags France and him out to the Red Lion for 'a few' after dinner, he applies himself to getting drunk with such dedication that Scotland looks about proud enough to burst.

Northern Ireland had hoped that being out in public would shame his brother and France into toning down the lovey-dovey crap a notch, but they still coo and make doe-eyes at each other with the same regularity as they did in the privacy of Scotland's home, and throw syrupy endearments around with abandon.

"Cheers, _mo chridhe_ ," Scotland offers along with a kiss when France returns with their next round.

"My pleasure, _mon coeur_ ," France returns, accompanied by a squeeze to some part of Scotland's person currently hidden beneath the table that Northern Ireland has no wish to speculate upon.

He's not sufficiently pissed yet that he can ignore this disgraceful display, but just enough so to embolden him to ask the question that has been niggling at him pretty much constantly throughout the past few days.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

Scotland blinks at him perplexedly. "What? Kiss?" His colour rises, and he stares rigidly down into the depths of his pint glass. "I thought... Wasn't Dylan going to talk—"

"No!" Northern Ireland barks out desperately. Listening to Wales stumble uncomfortably around the subject of sex had been bad enough; he and Scotland would probably both instantly expire on the spot, crushed beneath the enormous weight of their combined mortification, if Scotland ever even attempted to allude to it. "Not that, I mean the ' _mo chridhe_ ', ' _mon coeur_ ' stuff. Okay, I guess I understand why you do it, Francis, French being the language of... of love, and all that but you" – he jabs a finger in his brother's direction – "don't even speak _Gàidhlig_ the rest of the time, except when you're up in the Highlands, wearing a kilt, hunting haggis, and being all more-Scottish-than-thou."

Scotland looks poised to shrug off the question, but France then turns to him, one eyebrow cocked and very clearly interested in his answer, too.

"Well..." Scotland begins with great gusto that subsequently deserts him after that first, firmly stated word. He looks for encouragement again in his beer, which he gulps down almost half of before he can continue with: "Well, it'd be embarrassing to say it in English."

"Embarrassing?" France repeats slowly, his already raised eyebrow arcing up so high that it looks to be in danger of popping straight off his forehead.

"Jesus." Scotland sighs, and then roughly rubs at his eyes with his free hand. "I don't mean _you're_ embarrassing or anything. Or _we_ are. It's just... It's private, you ken, and I don't want every passing fucking stranger knowing my business just because they happened to overhear us talking, and... And you're not exactly a 'darling', or a 'dear', or a... a 'sweetheart' anyway, are you?"

"I'm sure _I_ wouldn't know," France says, somewhat icily.

Scotland opens his mouth as though to make a reply, but quickly redeploys it into finishing the rest of his pint, instead.

They leave the pub not long later, after France complains about the suspiciously sudden onset of a headache.

Said headache does not prevent him from preparing a huge and hugely elaborate supper as soon as they arrive back to Scotland's, nor from devouring a sizeable portion of it.

Scotland, on the other hand, only picks and pokes at his own plate, eventually pushing it away still half-full.

Normally, France would have had plenty to say when faced with such a great quantity of leftovers, quizzing Scotland on whether he thought the dish would have better suited this sauce, or the meat made more flavoursome seasoned with that herb or spice.

Tonight, he clears the table in stony silence, whilst Scotland makes a big, noisy production out of preparing a pot of tea and glowers at the kettle like it has personally insulted him all the while.

The frostiness of the atmosphere only deepens when they endeavour to watch a film together afterwards. France takes the far right hand side of the sofa, Scotland the far left, leaving Northern Ireland with no choice than to sit between them, as Scotland's one armchair would require a full-scale excavation effort to render it fit for service.

Scotland jounces his legs so energetically that it makes the entire sofa judder along with the movement. France drinks his tea with what sound to be deliberately, pointedly forceful sips. And Northern Ireland feels not so much like a third wheel, but an unconscionable wanker; a saboteur who might have thrown a spanner into the works of the world's longest on-again, off-again relationship and accidentally knocked it to 'off' yet again.

He bears the feeling with as much fortitude as he can muster, which turns out to be about quarter-of-an-hour's worth.

"I'm knackered," he says then with an exaggerated yawn. "And I'm not really following the film, so I think I'm going to get off to bed."

"Aye, me too." Scotland stands, stretches his arms up high above his head until his shoulder joints audibly crackle, and thereafter turns towards France. Licks his lips. Purses them. Furrows his brow. Then, with a terrible, halting slowness, says, "Are you coming, sweetheart."

The endearment sounds stilted, and, judging by the beetroot-red tinge of Scotland's face, it had pained him to deliver it.

France cheeks pink, however, and he smiles with what appears to be genuine delight before scrabbling to his feet and pulling Scotland into the deepest kiss that Northern Ireland has had the misfortune to witness to date.

When they eventually part, France says somewhat breathlessly, "You were right, of course, _mon coeur_. I don't think I am a 'sweetheart', after all."

"Oh, thank god," Scotland says with a relieved-sounding chuckle, tightening his arms around France's waist to such an extent that Northern Ireland thinks it a wonder that he doesn't squeeze France clean in two.

"But thank you for saying it, anyway," France adds. "And I'm sorry for earlier."

"Aye, I'm sorry, too."

"Shall we...?"

Scotland answers France with another kiss, and then drags him with great haste towards the doorway. Northern Ireland's fairly certain that he had got France's shirt half off before they've even reached the door, though, as he had the presence of mind to look away more swiftly this time, he's easily able to persuade himself it had just been a treacherous trick of the light.

A series of muffled thumps that Northern Ireland doesn't even want to guess at the provenance of follow, and he waits until they finally fade into silence before daring to move himself.

He walks out into the hallway and peers up the stairs. Most of the pictures that are hung along the length of the stairwell have been knocked askew, and some unidentifiable item of clothing is draped over the end of the banister. Scotland's closed bedroom door looks very ominous.

He sighs, and his breath crystallises before him in a white cloud. Never mind his bollocks, he'd likely lose all of his extremities if he spent the night down here.

A short burst of laughter drifts out from Scotland's room. It doesn't sound like the sort of laughter prompted by someone having been told a good, clean joke.

Down here is, despite its other deficiencies, very peaceful, at least.

"Living room it is, then," Northern Ireland says resignedly.


End file.
